


Here

by LadyDorian



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench knew that Numbers was dead—that he was only hallucinating the image of him standing beside his hospital bed. He knew none of it was real, but he wept softly because he so desperately wanted it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this amazing work of art](http://bulecelup.tumblr.com/post/94019574729/oke-fine) on tumblr last night and it destroyed me. After crying for some time, I managed to spit this out. I hope you all like it.

**Here**

He couldn't exactly say that he was pain-free.

Whatever drug they'd given him had worked well enough. It tempered the throb in his side, knocking it down to 'tolerable'—far from the excruciating stab he'd felt when the bullets had first torn through him. The drug helped him sleep. It helped him to forget for a brief moment how badly he must have fucked up to end his journey handcuffed to a hospital bed, cold and alone.

The drug worked well enough. But he wasn't pain-free. Whatever numbness it gifted him was fleeting, stripped away by unintended side effects.

It made him see ghosts.

It started with a flash of grey, a smudge across the sterile white that seemed to permeate every inch of the place. Wrench caught it out of the corner of his eye and then lifted his free hand to rub at both. When he opened them again, he saw him.

He had no reason to trust the cop who'd shot him, but at the same time he had no reason to believe she would lie about something like that.

There was no doubt in his mind the man who stood before him now was dead.

The bedframe rattled as Wrench strained at the cuffs. He whipped his head towards the door, hoping his fit of shock hadn't been loud enough to alert the guard outside. When he turned back around, Numbers was gone. He'd vanished as quickly as he'd appeared, leaving Wrench clutching at his chest, awash with a new assortment of agonies.

Wrench couldn't remember how much time had passed before he returned—minutes, hours, days all blended together in a swirl of medication—but he knew it was dark outside, and the nurses had just cleared away the tray of disgusting food and swapped his IV bags. He only had to blink a few times and there he was, standing calmly beside the bed with his hands clasped in front of him. He wore the same clothes as when he last saw him alive: The deep blue shirt, the impeccable grey suit, the scarf that Wrench had bought him for his birthday—that he hadn't been sure he would even like because he was so goddamned _picky_ , but Numbers had said he loved it, and he'd smiled so warmly at him.

He'd smiled just like he was doing now. And Wrench knew none of it was real, but he wept softly because he so desperately wanted it to be.

His head, his chest ached from the memories; he wished the drug were an amnesiac.

But it wasn't. It was doing the exact opposite now, heightening every sensation, every burning tear and pulsing throb. And the blankets were too rough, the pillows too hard, and he longed to be back in his own bed with the man he loved, but if he couldn't have that, then he wanted _nothing_. He wanted to erase it all.

The tears were not enough to wash his phantom away. Those bright eyes, that smile—they pierced the softest parts of him, refusing to let go. Numbers never spoke, never signed, but after some time he slowly slipped his hand over Wrench's.

Wrench clamped his eyes shut, sucking in a strangled breath.

Numbers' hand shouldn't have felt this warm.

It was a cruel lie; Numbers was cold and dead, probably laid out in the basement of the same damn hospital. And Wrench didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think of how many bullets riddled his corpse, or how he might have cried out for him as he fell, or how he'd wished the cop had aimed for his head so he never had to see her break the news that his partner was gone.

But Numbers' hand was _warm_ against his, comforting him like he'd often done when Wrench was sick or injured or worried about one thing or another. He'd held Wrench's hand whenever he was upset, whenever he wanted to apologize for an argument or surprise him with a kiss.

He'd held his hand right before he'd said _I love you_ for the first time.

It had always been a simple gesture—a message not conveyed in words or eyes. One that told him how deeply Numbers cared for him, how irreplaceable he was.

A sign that Numbers would always be here.

That it would be alright.

And Wrench could never forget—would never _want_ to forget something so important—so he willed his tears to dry, he tried to clear his head of desperation and allowed himself to drift off to the warm memory of his partner's touch, the hope that it offered him.

It was the only drug he needed.

[[end.]]


End file.
